Unmasked
by spotschica
Summary: Prequel to Behind Every Good Man. Pocket has a secret that she doesn't want to get out. When a certain angry newsie reveals her secret, will it ruin everything?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey folks, here's another one. This story is another prequel to Behind Every Good Man. If you haven't read that story, I recommend reading it first, even though this is a prequel. Also, if you haven't read First Impressions, read that one first too. **

**And most importantly, REVIEW ALREADY!!! Lots of you read my stories, but aren't reviewing. I definitely want to know what you think. If nobody reviews, I will be forced to assume that you don't like my little scribblings and stop scribbling them!**

In a few weeks, Spot had managed to establish himself as the leader of Brooklyn. He knew he would still have to fight against other boroughs interference, but within Brooklyn itself, he had no opposition. Thanks to Pocket's tip-off, Spot had been able to avoid a messy situation with Ace and O'Grady, in fact, with her advice, he had been able to turn the whole thing to his own advantage.

Just as they'd discussed, Spot confronted the two conspirators in a public forum, before an audience of watchful Brooklyn newsies. Calmly and without flinching Spot had asked Ace how he'd lost Carver's trust before the old leader died. When Ace had stuttered and hedged and tried to avoid answering, Spot accused him of stealing from the younger boys. Ace denied the claims, but a few of his former victims, emboldened by the crowd, had stepped forward and confirmed that Spot spoke the truth.

In the uproar that followed, Spot had stood quietly, watching Ace. Once he felt that the babble of outraged voices had gone on long enough, he'd spoken again, his words laced with a thread of steel that instantly silenced the room. Casually, with the air of one telling an amusing tale, he told the other newsies of Ace's plan to get rid of Spot and take over Brooklyn.

There in the crowded main room of the Brooklyn lodging house, Spot had coolly informed Ace and O'Grady that if they wanted to get rid of him, they were welcome to try. There, in the middle of the cheering crowd, Spot beat Ace within an inch of his life, his face an emotionless mask the whole time. No one made a move to stop him. O'Grady, coward that he was, turned and ran the second Ace fell.

As Spot predicted, there were questions from the boys, who wondered how he had managed to discover Ace's plan. Spot laughingly told them, "A little boidie told me," and a tradition in Brooklyn was born. Spot would go on to have many "boidies" feeding him information about the other boroughs, Pocket was the first.

That wasn't the last time Spot had to defend himself against other Brooklynites who felt they had more right to leadership than he did. None of them managed to defeat him. Finally, the few boys who disagreed with him were run out of Brooklyn, and the newsies that remained had no doubt about Spot's authority.

To celebrate, Spot sent a runner to Manhattan inviting them all to a party. The promise of whiskey and cards was more than enough to send Pocket and her friends tramping merrily across the bridge. All the boys greeted Spot with shouts of congratulations, all of which he accepted with a smug, satisfied grin. Pocket hung back, waiting until he finally pulled her aside to give her his own good wishes.

"Ya did good, Conlon," she told him.

He waved her words away impatiently.

"I owe's ya me thanks," he said solemnly. "If ya hadn't warned me about Ace, who knows what woulda happened. I'd prob'ly still be fightin. Ya gave me good advice, and I got things under control pretty quick."

Pocket smiled modestly. "Hey," she shrugged, "I do what I can."

Racetrack bounded over and pulled Pocket into a game. Spot sidled after them, electing not to join the game, instead pulling up a chair to watch.

Race played a few hands before drifting off to another table, and before long the game was down to just Pocket and Blue, a big, smelly brute with not a lot of brains but more than enough temper. Pocket easily won the first couple of hands, shaking Blue's concentration when she teased him about it. As the game went on, Blue grew more and more angry, and his playing got sloppier. Finally, Pocket bluffed him into folding on an inside straight, smiling cheerfully as she counted her winnings. Blue reached out to grab the cards she'd tossed face down on the table, and when he turned them over his face went white with rage.

The gathered newsies laughed uproariously when they saw that Pocket had beaten Blue's full house with a measly pair of sevens. Their light hearted insults stung his pride, and with a last angry look at Pocket he stomped out of the lodging house. Laughing, Pocket turned and yelled over to Racetrack.

"Hey Race, got me some real money, wanna play for serious?"


	2. Chapter 2

**I would like to take a moment to thank the kind soul who took the time to review. I appreciate you! I guess nobody else loves me. . . . Anyway, I love Pocket and Spot so I will keep writing anyway. But the rest of you folks need to get with it and REVIEW PLEASE! What do I have to do, bribe you? Fine. If you review I will give you a cookie.**

**On with the show . . .**

Pocket had already forgotten about that card game by the time Manhattan hosted another one a couple of weeks later. Spot came with a few of his boys, Blue among them. Blue had not forgotten the previous game. The beefy Brooky was still smarting from his defeat and was determined to play Pocket again. Unwilling to believe he had been beaten by someone so much younger, he had since decided that Pocket cheated and swore to catch the little sneak _this_ time.

Despite his best efforts, it wasn't until the end of the night that Blue faced Pocket across the table. It was custom at these card games for the newsies to fall into groups by age. The youngest, who had less money to bet with, usually played each other for bragging rights only. The older boys, who sold more papes and had extra cash, played each other. Spot played with the older boys, as leader that was his right. Racetrack and Pocket, among the youngest, respected the pecking order, despite the fact that they both had the money, and the skill, to play with the big boys. They bided their time at the "baby tables", warming up against kids their own age. For the better part of the evening they sat across the room from Roller, Spot, Blue and the rest; laughing, smoking, and drinking as they waited.

As usual, they ended up playing each other when none of the other youngsters would challenge them anymore. After that they amused themselves by showing off their best card tricks, fancy shuffles, and sleight of hand. Pocket loved cards almost as much as Racetrack, and the two enjoyed learning from each other.

Blue watched them out of the corner of his eye; sure he would figure out how Pocket had beaten him. But the two soon moved on to blackjack and he returned his attention to his own game.

Eventually bored with their own cards, Pocket and Racetrack pulled up chairs to watch the older boys' game. They continued to joke around, poking and teasing at each other, but only Spot noticed how much of their focus was actually on the game.

Racetrack Higgins was a born gambler, with the understanding that in poker, your cards didn't matter as much as the people you played against. He didn't miss anything, noting every smile, every frown, every tap of every finger, all the myriad tells that the others weren't aware of but that told _him _exactly what they held.

Pocket was savvy, but no where near Race's natural talent. What she did have was a killer poker face. She won at cards by bluffing – playing every hand as though her cards were golden; unflinchingly raising bets until her opponents folded. Never did she blink, sigh, or shift impatiently in her seat, all clues that a good opponent would use against her. No matter what she held, Pocket maintained a light hearted, carefree attitude and kept her thoughts to herself. She watched the other players too, but she wasn't looking for the same things Racetrack was. Instead, she paid attention to who bet big, who was more cautious, who took chances, and who could be counted on to fold a mediocre hand.

All these little bits and pieces of information were filed away in the mental banks of the two young cardsharps, and by the time they were allowed to join the game, they both knew how the others would play before the cards even fell.

The game ended with Spot taking a decent pot from the table, smirking at Pocket as he collected his winnings.

"Ya think ya ready?" he asked.

Pocket snorted. "Don't make me laugh, paperboy. And don't get too attached ta that dough, eitha."

Everyone laughed as they shifted around to make room for Pocket and Racetrack at the table. Blue made a fuss about the two of them sitting next to each other.

"Don't trust them two sneaks togetha," he announced with a suspicious look at Pocket.

Racetrack stiffened angrily at the comment, offended. After all, cheating was a serious accusation. Spot saw that Roller wasn't happy either, and shot his newsie a quelling look. Pocket just rolled her eyes as she laughingly shoved Skittery out of his chair and flopped into it.

"'S'alright," she shrugged dismissively. "I can reach ya money just as good from ovah here."

Blue glared at her, but she only rolled her eyes again and turned to Spot.

"Was ya plannin' on dealin tha cards, or is this a knittin circle?"

Spot smirked and tossed the deck at her. "Go ahead," he invited.

With a saucy grin she turned her attention to the game, doling out the cards with practiced ease.

The first few hands were largely uneventful, low bets as they all got into their stride. Pots were collected pretty evenly among the players, Racetrack only slightly ahead. Blue, who had been losing more than he won, and drinking more than he lost, was by this time bleary-eyed and belligerent. As the game progressed his bets grew increasingly foolish and the glares he directed at Pocket became increasingly meaner.

Pocket, meanwhile, was only giving the game half her attention; the rest she spent watching Spot. Now that they'd called a truce, they were more relaxed in each other's company. She was enjoying his dry sarcasm and lazy smiles. Spot, too, was playing rather half-heartedly, focusing only enough to avoid losing spectacularly, taking an occasional hand to maintain his reputation. He was more interested in Pocket's cheerful demeanor and spent a good portion of the game trying to make her laugh.

Most nights, the younger boys had already stumbled off to bed by the time the best players faced each other. A few of the oldest boys stayed to watch. Tonight, however, the audience was considerably bigger. Even the youngest could sense that Blue was a powder keg, and every single one of them was crowded into the common room to see how the situation played out.

Racetrack was in top form that night. He easily took the majority of the hands, clearing the table of all but Pocket, who always played to the end, Spot, who was too busy watching Pocket to care, and Blue, who was either too drunk, too stupid, or too both to take himself out of the game.

Finally, after winning an especially large pot, Racetrack opted out, shaking his head at his friends' protests.

"Sorry, fellas, don't feel right takin anymore of ya dough. 'Sides, got enough now ta take ta the track tamarra – got a hot tip, feelin real good about it."

Bowing grandly, the diminutive Italian pulled a cigar out of his vest, lit it, and relaxed in his chair.

"Glad I'se got a good seat thought," he commented airily. "Pretty sure this game's gonna be good."

Pocket and Spot both laughed, but Blue just continued to give her the evil eye. It was Pocket's turn to deal, but she offered the cards to Spot.

"Maybe ya bettah throw these around this time, Conlon. Wouldn't want anything 'sneaky' goin on," she said.

Spot hid a smile as he took the deck, not wanting to further antagonize Blue. Like most of the Brooklyn newsies, Blue had a healthy temper and was unwilling to let any offense, real or imagined, go ignored. Spot could see that his boy was close to the edge; the whiskey he'd consumed, combined with the money he'd lost and Pocket's smart comments, had him ready to explode. One more remark and Spot figured Blue would start swinging. He wished for a way to signal Pocket, get her to take it easy, but he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't draw attention and piss Blue off even more. Not that Pocket would take the warning anyway. Thought she didn't let on, Blue's earlier comment about her being a sneak had gotten to her. Pocket was not about to back down, and Spot could see that. As he dealt the cards he began forming a plan for what to do when Blue went after her. Pocket would want to fight, the other boys would expect her too, and Spot just hoped he could keep her from getting hurt too badly. Blue was, after all, almost two feet taller than her and at least three times her weight.

None of the three of them spoke as they examined their cards and made their bets. Spot took the first hand, Blue the next. When the cards went out for the third hand, the entire room could tell that it was make or break time, the hand that would end the game.

Blue started the betting high, tossing a nickel onto the table. Without batting an eye or even glancing at her cards, Pocket threw in one nickel, then added another. Spot smirked at her and threw in a dime, and they both turned expectantly to Blue.

The sound of Blue's teeth grinding was unnaturally loud as he studied his cards, glancing up periodically to glare at Pocket. Unconcerned, she leaned back in her seat and rolled a cigarette. Blue weighed his options for a moment, then grudgingly decided that whatever Pocket had beat his three nines and threw his cards face down in disgust. Pocket nodded at Spot and they turned over their cards.

Spot wore a smug grin as he laid down a pair of kings.

"Fork it ovah, kid," he told Pocket.

Pocket grumbled half heartedly and pushed the coins over to him. Then her hand snaked out and she grabbed Blue's cards, flipping them over.

"Uh oh," she chirped. "Guess ya shoulda stayed in the game. Ya coulda beaten both of us. All's I had was a coupla lousy threes."

The rest of the boys laughed and Pocket stood up, shoving the rest of her money in her pocket and stretching.

"Alright boys, I'm done for tha night. Gotta save some dough for tha papes tamarra."

Blue sat dumbly as the others all started getting up, his jaw working as he stared blankly at the cards on the table.

"You- you . . . cheated!" he finally blurted.

Pocket snorted. "Uh, no, chief, I didn't," she spoke slowly, as though he was mentally deficient. "See, if I'da cheated, I'da won."

The newsies' mocking laughter infuriated Blue and he shot up, knocking his chair over.

"I don't care, ya still cheated!" He pointed an accusing finger at Pocket. "I'se gonna soak ya, ya bum," he shouted as he came around the table.

Pocket stood her ground, all trace of humor gone.

"I said I didn't cheat," she ground out.

Roller and Spot both stepped closer but waited, not ready to interfere. Unless Pocket needed help, honor and pride demanded that the two fight it out. It went against Spot's judgment to stand back; in his mind Blue had no business fighting a girl. He knew Pocket wouldn't thank him for butting in so he waited, ready.

Pocket didn't blink as Blue advanced on her, even when they stood toe to toe and she had to tilt her head to look up at him. Her lack of fear only added to his fury. Face red, breathing heavily, he glowered down at her.

It seemed like an hour that the room watched silently, waiting for one of them to make a move.

Pocket yawned.

Finally Blue snapped. With a low growl he clamped a hand on Pocket's arm and lifted a fist. She ducked to avoid the punch and jerked her arm free. Dancing backward, she waited until Blue rushed her again, darting under his arm and landing a flurry of punches to his stomach.

Winded, Blue back away and charged again, but Pocket was half his size and not even half as drunk so she easily sidestepped him. He swung again, wildly, and again, she got away, but slower this time. She caught a glancing blow to the side of her face. Shaking her head to clear it, she wiped her bleeding lip.

Spot took a step forward, intending to put a stop to the fight, but Pocket wasn't ready to end it. She turned her head to warn him off; in that one second of distraction Blue saw his opportunity.

Pocket staggered when his meaty fist connected, catching her full in the jaw and knocking her head back. She stumbled, and Blue leapt forward with a roar, knocking her to the ground. The ringing in her ears drowned out the collective gasp of the watching newsies as her cap fell off, freeing her long black curls to spill across the floor.

Blue's face registered shock for just a moment, then with an evil grin he grabbed a handful of her hair, fist raised to strike her again. Spot and Roller jumped in at the same time, each of them grabbing an arm and dragging Blue off of her. Free of his crushing weight, Pocket slowly pulled herself to her feet.

Disoriented, she swayed a bit before finding her balance. She muttered a curse and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor, only then did she notice her cap had come off. She bent and scooped it up, jamming it back on her head. Then she slowly raised her eyes to look at the boys around her.

They all stood open-mouthed, staring. Spot looked grim; Racetrack, concerned. Blink broke the silence.

"You'se a goil!" he exclaimed, setting off a chorus of angry and confused newsies.

Shocked and angry at the deception, the Manhattan boys shouted insults at her.

Pocket said nothing. Her eyes traveled over the crowd as she shoved her curls back up under her hat. She straightened her clothes and drew a deep breath. Roller started to speak but she raised a hand, cutting off the babble of voices.

"Don't matter." She spoke clearly, her voice even.

Pocket leveled a look at Blue that promised revenge. Eyes locked on his, she spit another mouthful of blood on his shoe.

Then she walked away.

Still full of rage and resentment, Blue yanked his arms free and started after her. Before he could take to steps he was blocked by Spot's cane pressing into his neck.

Pocket turned at the door.

"I'll be back later ta get me things," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ok, folks, here's the next chapter. I would ask you guys to review, but I guess your keyboards are broken? Anyhow, here it is, hope you guys enjoy it. I might be posting the next chapter tonight as well.**

Everyone stared at the door as it shut behind Pocket. Spot took his cane off Blue's neck. The young Brooklyn leader's face was set in cold, hard lines.

"Go back ta Brooklyn an get ya shit," he told his newsie.

"Wait, what?" Blue spluttered, stunned.

"Ya hoid me. I bettah not see ya face in me territory. Evah."

"But why?" Blue wanted to know.

"Got now place for ya, ya coward," Spot sneered, his tone laced with scorn. "Real men don't hit goils."

"But I didn't know she was a goil," the other boy whined plaintively.

"Yeah," one of the other boys agreed, "none of us did."

Spot swung to face him, eyes flashing silver. The unfortunate newsie wisely shut his mouth and retreated to stand behind his friends. Spot turned back to Blue.

"Ya knew she was a goil when her hat came off, an ya still tried ta hit her," Spot's voice vibrated with barely leashed fury. "Then ya went afta her again. Go back to Brooklyn. Get ya shit. I bettah not see ya face again."

The room was quiet. All eyes were on Blue, blinking confusedly at Spot as though unsure of what he'd heard.

"Now."

Spot's command cracked through the room like the sound of a judge's gavel. Blue jumped. He cast desperate glances at the other Brooklyn newsies, none of whom would his eyes. They knew better than to question Spot.

Shoulders slumped, defeated, Blue shuffled to the door. Once again he looked beseechingly at the gathered newsies. The Brooklynites turned away from him. The Manhattaners just stared. Head down, he left, pushed out the door by the force of Spot's glare.

Spot watched him go, and he couldn't help but compare Blue's retreat to Pocket's exit. She had walked out with her head held high and her pride intact. Even in defeat, Pocket had proven herself more of a man than Blue.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, Spot turned to his boys.

"We're leaving," he announced.

His tone brooked no argument, and his boys rushed to obey him. Spot gave a curt nod to Roller and followed them out. Just before the door closed he stepped back in, an odd expression on his face.

"Racetrack."

Race had been studying his feet, deep in thought. He looked up in surprise at the sound of his name.

"Yeah?" he answered cautiously.

"When Pocket comes back, tell her I got space in Brooklyn." The leader paused, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips. "Seems a bunk just became available."

The little gambler let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I will."

Spot turned to go; once again he turned back at the door.

"Race."

"Yeah, Spot?"

Spot gave Racetrack a meaningful look. "Prob'ly find anotha bunk, if I needed to," he said casually.

Racetrack nodded as the other boys looked on in confusion.

"Yeah," he gave his friend a weak smile. "Yeah, thanks."

He gazed thoughtfully at the door as it closed for the third time that night.

"What's he mean, he's got a extra bunk?" Skittery was the first to speak, asking the question on everyone's mind.

Racetrack only shrugged, shooting a sideways glance at Roller. With a sigh, the feisty Italian dropped heavily into a chair, his face troubled. He found his cigar and lit it, watching warily as Roller came to sit across from him. The others scurried hastily for seats and waited expectantly.

Roller lit his own cigarette and reached for his glass, knocking back the whiskey in one gulp.

'Jeez," he muttered. "Didn't see that comin."

A few of the boys laughed uneasily. Racetrack stared at the table.

"Who'da thought Pocket was a goil, huh Race?" Roller asked idly.

"Yeah, who'da thunk it?" Racetrack said quietly, his eyes fixed firmly on the table.

Roller sat quietly, watching Racetrack closely.

"Big surprise, right boys?" he called to the newsies, who mumbled and nodded in reply.

Arms folded, Roller turned back to Racetrack. The younger boys still didn't look up.

"Racetrack." The leader said his name impatiently.

This time Racetrack looked up and met his eyes. His face was pale but determined. Roller's expression was stern; Race smiled to himself. _Roller's "Don't Cross Me" face don't got nothin on Spot's,_ he mused. The thought cheered him a little. If he could stand up to Spot Conlon, he could most definitely stand up to Roller.

"I knew." He spoke quietly, beating Roller to the point. "I knew she was a goil."

A low murmur rippled through the common room at his announcement. Racetrack looked at Roller, waiting. The leader's arms dropped to his sides.

"Why didn't ya say somethin Race?" he asked wearily.

"Well," Racetrack answered carefully, "didn't think it was my place."

"Ya didn't think I should know?" Roller questioned.

Racetrack shrugged again. "Pocket's got her reasons for hidin it, I guess." He took a pull on his cigar. "Didn't think it mattered."

"What!" Roller exclaimed. The rest of the newsies wore the same shocked expression.

"How could it not matter?" Skittery asked incredulously.

Another shrug from Racetrack. "I just don't think," here he paused, choosing his words carefully, "that it makes a difference. Pocket's still Pocket, even if she's a goil. Ain't like she's gonna act different." Racetrack looked around at the newsies. Most looked doubtful, but a few nodded thoughtfully. "There's been goil newsies before, rememba? Not many, but a few."

"Goils ain't newsies," Skittery proclaimed.

"Why not?" Racetrack wanted to know.

"Yeah, why not?" Blink spoke up. "Pocket sells as many papes as you do, Skitts."

All the boys started talking at once, raising their voices to be heard over one another. Roller let them talk, still eyeing Racetrack suspiciously. Eventually he yelled for quiet, waiting until the noise died out before he spoke again.

"So, Race, ya think I should let Pocket stay."

Racetrack blew out a heavy breath. He'd known that question was coming, and he knew what would come next. He sat silent for a moment, his mind racing, mulling over the whole thing in his head. Then he reached a decision.

"Yeah," he said firmly. "I do."

That set off another outburst among the Manhattaners. Roller waved his hand for quiet.

"An what if I don't?" he asked pointedly.

Racetrack stood and pulled his cap down lower on his head.

"That's your decision, ain't it?" he answered calmly. "Guess I'll be bunkin in Brooklyn."

Once again the newsies started shouting. Roller banged his hand on the table.

"Where ya goin, Race?" he asked, seeing the other boy had a hand on the door.

Racetrack looked at him, almost pitying. "I'se goin afta her," he said with the tone of one stating the obvious. "Make sure she's okay."

Roller sat in disbelief as Racetrack walked out.

**A/N: I just love Racetrack. He's so saucy.**


	4. Announcement

Announcement: I will be posting the first chapter of the sequel to **Behind Every Good** **Man **tonight. It's called **Queen of Both Boroughs**, so look for it either tonite or tomorrow. It has taken me a while to decide what I wanted to do with it, but I love Pocket and Spot too much not to keep writing them. Hope you enjoy it!


	5. Chapter 4

**I guess I am feeling extra productive tonight. Actually, I am trying to avoid doing homework. So you lucky people get to enjoy the fruits of my procrastination. Have fun!**

dPocket was long gone when Racetrack exited the lodging house, and he cursed himself for not going after her immediately. Now it was going to be hard to find her. What if she needed help? Blue had hit her pretty hard and she'd been a little unsteady when she left.

Footsteps pounded behind him; he whirled around, fists ready.

"Jesus, Blink," he grumbled when he saw who it was. 'Whatcha doin?"

Blink took a moment to catch his breath before answering. "Same as you," he panted. "Findin Pocket."

"What for?" Race asked suspiciously.

Blink rolled his good eye. "Pocket's me pal," he said simply.

Racetrack continued to stare at him until Blink shoved his shoulder.

"Quit lookin at me like that," he mumbled. "C'mon, let's go."

Racetrack started walking. Blink fell into step beside him.

"Where d'ya think she is?" Blink wondered.

"Not sure . . ." Race trailed off, thinking. Then it hit him. "I know!" he crowed and jogged off in the other direction. Blink hurried after him.

"Ain't nobody here," Blink whispered as they approached a factory. The huge brick building was completely dark, a little bit spooky.

Racetrack's shoulders fell as he looked around. He'd been sure he'd find her here. Disappointed, he turned to go when something caught his eye. He squinted into the darkness. He nudged Blink and pointed toward the roof. Blink looked up and saw it too, the faint orange glow of a cigarette. They clambered up the fire escape to the roof, almost landing on top of Pocket. She stood ready, legs planted, fists clenched. She visibly relaxed when she saw it was them.

"Whatcha doin here?" she asked gruffly.

Now that they'd found her, Racetrack wasn't sure what to say. "Wanted ta make sure you'se alright," he spoke hesitantly, unsure of her reaction.

"Yeah," Blink chimed in. "That Blue clocked ya pretty good . . . Bastard," he muttered as an afterthought.

Pocket scoffed. "I'll be alright," she said.

"Ya sure?" Blink pressed.

"I'se fine," she insisted. "Bum barely got a hand on me." She spoke bravely, but her lip was cracked and puffy, and her jaw swollen, bruises already starting to show.

"Thought ya might be, ya know, upset or somthin," Racetrack tried again. Pocket gave him a dirty look.

"What's to be upset about?" she said stoutly. "Ain't like I nevah slept on the street before, is it?"

The three of them stood quietly, looking out over the darkened city. Pocket wandered over to sit on the edge of the roof.

"I did like Manhattan, though," she sighed wistfully. Her earlier bravado was gone, now she just looked tired. "It was kinda nice knowin where I was gonna be sleepin every night." She lit a cigarette. "Oh well," she tried to sound casual. "Time for me ta move on. I'se gettin bored there anyway."

"Listen, Pocket," Race went to sit next to her. "Spot wanted me ta tell ya somthin."

She looked over at him, head tilted, waiting.

"Wanted me ta tell ya he's got room in Brooklyn," he told her.

Pocket looked surprised, then thoughtful.

"An he also said," Racetrack continued, "that he had a bunk for me, too."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Ya goin ta Brooklyn?" she asked.

Race nodded.

"What tha hell for?" she burst out. Blink laughed.

"Why not?" Race shot back, wounded. "Don't think its fair that ya have ta leave just cause you'se a goil," he explained with dignity. 'Not sure I wanna stay with folks like that."

Pocket looked at him appraisingly, her eyes narrowed.

"Ya don't care I'se a goil?" she wanted to know. He shook his head. So did Blink. "Ya ain't mad I didn't tell ya?" she pushed.

Racetrack grinned wickedly. "Oh, yeah, ya big secret," he mocked. "I already knew." He laughed at her shocked expression.

"How'd ya know?" she shoved him.

He raised a shoulder. "Can't explain, really," he mumbled. "Just knew."

Pocket wasn't convinced. "Sure, Race," she rolled her eyes. "Tell me how ya knew."

Even in the dark it was obvious that his face was bright red. He looked away from her, his answer so soft and quickly spoken she almost didn't catch it. Almost.

"Ya saw me in the bath!" she shouted, shoving him again, harder.

"I didn't mean too!" he rushed to explain. "I only saw for a second, I swear! Besides," he went on slyly, "ain't like ya got much to look at anyway. Ow! Stop that," he held up his arm to block her as she tried to thump him. He pushed her over.

Laughing, she jumped up and grabbed him. Blink joined in too and they wrestled around until they were each to weak from laughing to keep on. They flopped onto their backs and stared up at the sky.

"I mean it, Pocket," Race said after a while. "I ain't stayin in 'Hattan if you ain't."

Pocket was quiet for a minute, and when she answered her voice held a note of uncertainty.

"Ya'd do that for me?" she whispered.

"Course," he told her. Then, uncomfortable with emotion, he poked her in the arm. "Ain't really for you, anyway," he announced. "Been thinking of movin for a while. Be closer to the tracks." Pocket chuckled.

"Ya still gonna visit, right?" Blink asked her.

"Guess so," she told him.

He nodded, satisfied. They lay there, the three of them, feeling like the only people in New York as they gazed up at the stars. Blink was soon snoring, and just before Racetrack drifted off he heard Pocket's quiet whisper.

"Thanks."


	6. Chapter 5

**This is it, the last chapter. I hope you all enjoyed this little story. Maybe give you a little more information about Pocket's relationships with Spot and Racetrack. **

**Let me know what you think! Oh yeah, and I know I said I was going to have the first chapter of the sequel up, but it's not quite ready yet. So be patient with me, hopefully I will have it up either tonight or tomorrow.**

Pocket winced at the bright light burning through her eyelids and rolled over to hide her face. Instead of the yielding softness of her pillow she found her skin pressed against something hard and unforgiving. Startled, she bolted upright, looking wildly around. Her muscles relaxed some when she realized where she was, up on the factory roof with Race and Blink. They tightened again when she remembered why.

A sad sigh escaped her lips as she replayed the events of the previous evening in her head. Vividly she recalled the looks on her friends' faces when they discovered her secret: shock, disappointment, anger. The uncaring front she'd maintained last night was long gone, replaced by regret and a painful, piercing loneliness. Pocket had been on her own most of her life, as long as she could remember. But now that she'd had a taste of belonging, of acceptance, she knew she'd miss it fiercely. It would be harder now to be by herself all the time. A lump rose up in her throat but she refused to give in to weakness. Crying like a baby wasn't going to get her anywhere. She had to decide her next move. Groaning in frustration, she realized she'd have to go back to picking pockets. She didn't look forward to it. Sure, it was better money that selling papes, but she'd enjoyed having a way to get money that wasn't going to get her sent to the refuge. She'd enjoyed earning _honest_ money. Pocket had never been concerned with the legality of her previous profession, and didn't regret what she'd had to do to survive. Still, it had meant a lot to her to be something other than a thief. She searched her brain for other options. _Maybe I can make enough playin cards ta live off it,_ she thought. _I can get Race ta teach me his best tricks._

Pocket looked down at Racetrack and suddenly remembered what he'd told her last night. Spot had a place for her in Brooklyn; she could go to Brooklyn! Hope welled up in her chest. She didn't have to be alone again, didn't have to steal to eat, didn't have to go back to sleeping in doorways and alleys. Smiling to herself, Pocket rose and stretched, eager to get across the bridge. Her hand went to her face, gingerly exploring her injuries. Dried blood caked her lips and her jaw was swollen; she couldn't open her mouth very far. Oh well, she'd been hurt worse before.

She walked to the edge of the roof and peered out over the street. People were up and about already. Pocket could smell coffee somewhere and heard the circulation bell ringing in the distance. Good. The lodging house would be empty by the time she got there; she could go and collect her belongings without making a scene. Pocket wasn't one to back down from a conflict, but it would just be so much easier if she didn't have to talk to the other newsies, see the disgust in their eyes when they looked at her. It would be easier to leave if she didn't have to look at the friends she'd be leaving behind.

An sudden, unpleasant thought made her frown, wincing slightly at the pain it caused her tender lips. What if Spot had changed his mind? What if he'd decided he didn't want a girl newsie? Pocket had to admit she'd been surprised when Race told her of Spot's offer. Brooklyn was a tough place, and the boys that lived there were tough right along with it. They might not like having a girl around. And it might make Spot look weak, taking in refugees from the other boroughs. Not the best way to start out his leadership. Pocket lit a cigarette and paced the length of the roof and back as more what-ifs popped into her head.

What if Blue made trouble for her? What if the other newsies didn't trust her, didn't want her there? She'd rather be alone on the street than alone among people that didn't like her. Racetrack had said he'd go with her, but Pocket didn't want to hold him to his promise. Manhattan was his home; it wasn't fair for her to expect him to leave just because she wasn't welcome.

The weight of her worry pressed down around her shoulders, slowing her steps. She shook those thoughts away with an abrupt shake of her head. Pocket refused to get caught up worrying about what might happen; worrying wouldn't change anything. If Spot turned her away, she'd just go back to the way things were before, no matter how much she didn't want to. She might not like picking pockets, but she was good at it, and Pocket had always done what she needed to do to get by. A small voice in the back of her mind said maybe it was better if she was alone anyway, she obviously didn't do well with people. Maybe this was for the best. The decision helped some, gave her focus, a plan. Feeling marginally better, she went to go wake Racetrack and Blink.

It took more than a few nudges from her foot to rouse Blink, but Racetrack woke easily. The little Italian sat straight up, glancing around to get his bearings. He offered Pocket a sleepy smile as he stood up, but the smile faded when he saw the purpling bruises on her face.

"Might wanna get Kloppy ta look at that when we get back ta the lodgin," he told her.

"Nah," Pocket shook her head. "It's fine. Won't be stayin long enough anyway."

Racetrack nodded his understanding.

"Ya goin ta Brooklyn, then?" he asked.

"Yeah, soon as I get me things." She looked at him solemnly. "Listen Race," she said. "Ya ain't gotta go with me. I won't be mad if ya stay on this side of the bridge."

He waved away her protest. "Like I told ya," he insisted, "I ain't so sure I wanna stay if they's gonna kick ya out. Don't seem right."

Pocket didn't argue, merely accepted his decision. She couldn't deny, even to herself, that she felt a little bit better about moving to Brooklyn if Race was going to be with her. It would be nice to have a familiar face around, and besides, he was her closest friend. She'd still miss her other friends, though. She looked down at Blink, still sitting on the roof rubbing the sleep out of his eye.

"Ya ready Blink?" she asked. "Ya bettah get ovah there an get ya papes before they's all gone."

Blink nodded sleepily, mumbling incoherent nonsense. The three of them climbed down from the roof and headed back toward the lodging house. When they got close, Blink split off toward the distribution center to get his papers, giving Pocket an awkward hug before he went. She and Racetrack walked slowly the rest of the way.

As they expected, the house was empty when they arrived. They stood on the steps staring at the door for a while, each lost in thought. Finally Pocket squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

"Let's go," she said to Race, her voice determined.

At his nod, she pushed open the door and they walked inside. They didn't speak as they mounted the stairs to the sleeping area. When she reached the top, Pocket was surprised to find Roller leaning casually against her bunk. She stopped short, stumbling a little when Racetrack ran into her from behind.

"Pocket, Racetrack," Roller said by way of greeting. He eyed them both thoughtfully for a minute. "Hey, Race," he finally said, "Ya mind lettin me talk ta Pocket alone?"

Racetrack looked at Pocket, silently offering to stay if she needed his support. She nodded her agreement, and Race gave her an encouraging look before hurrying off to the washroom. Pocket went to her bed and started gathering her things. She froze when Roller laid a hand on her arm to stop her.

"Why'd ya lie to us?" He got straight to the point.

Pocket lifted her chin. She wouldn't show him she cared. She wouldn't.

"I didn't wanna lie to ya," she told him quietly. "I just didn't want folks knowin I'se a goil."

"But why?" he persisted.

She lifted a shoulder. "Just easier, is all. You'd all treat me different if ya knew. Didn't want anybody watching me all the time, lookin for me ta mess up, lookin ta see if I'se good enough." She looked down at her feet. 'Roller, I'm sorry ya mad, but I ain't sorry I didn't tell ya. I knew ya wouldn't let me stay."

"What made ya so sure?" he wanted to know. "How'd ya know I wouldn't have let ya stay?"

Pocket let out a little laugh, but there was no humor in it. "How many goil newsies ya got, Roller?"

"None."

"That's how I know," she said simply.

"Ya still shoulda told me," he told her reproachfully.

"Would ya have let me stay?" she countered.

Roller thought about it. "Prob'ly not," he admitted. "Most goils don't got what it takes to be a newsie. Always needin help with somethin. Ain't worth the trouble keepin 'em around."

Pocket tried not to let his words bother her and went back to collecting her belongings.

"But ya ain't like most goils, Pocket," Roller announced.

Her head came up in surprise; her eyes searched his face.

"Ya got stones, I'll give ya that," he went on. "Ya already proved you'se just as good as us fellas." He paused. "I think for you, I can make an exception."

Pocket wasn't sure she heard right. "Whatcha sayin?" she asked carefully. Hope rose up within her but she pushed it down, afraid of being disappointed.

"I'm sayin, ya don't need ta go. Me an the boys talked it ovah last night, and we want ya ta stay."

She stood quietly, thinking. Finally she nodded, her face betraying nothing of the joy she felt.

"Alright then, I'll stay."

"Good." Satisfied, Roller smiled at her then spit in his palm and extended it to her. She did the same and they shook on it.

"Just don't lie ta me again," he warned her.

"I won't," she agreed.

Just then the door to the washroom burst open and Racetrack came running out, a huge grin lighting his face.

"I knew it!" he yelled happily. "I knew he'd let ya stay!"

"Yeah, ya knew it," scoffed Roller. "That's why ya was all set ta pack up an move ta Brooklyn?"

The feisty gambler grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well," he amended, "I hoped he'd let ya stay."

Pocket and Roller both laughed at him, then Roller turned to leave.

"Alright," he told them. "Tha two of ya quit messin around. Just cause I'se lettin ya stay don't mean ya ain't gotta work. Get the lead outta ya pants." He tipped his hat to Pocket and sauntered off down the stairs. They heard the door slam shut.

The pair of them stood grinning stupidly at each other then Race grabbed her and pulled her into a fierce hug. They jumped apart when they heard the door open again.

"Get movin," Roller's voice floated up to them.

Laughing, Pocket headed for the washroom.

"Hey Pocket," Race called and she turned around.

"Yeah?"

'Ya bein a goil an everythin," he wondered, "This mean ya gonna start wearin a dress?"

He ducked as a towel flew at him.


End file.
